Every one played his best, and we wheeled and spun round in
a way that reminded one of a cavalry skirmish. Strokes and back-strokes
followed quickly, till at last I got the ball as it came rolling out
between my horse's legs, and, hotly pursued, beyond the possibility of
making a fair stroke, I moved away with it in front of me.
Then began one of those interminable circular games that all polo
players know so well, round and round the battlefield, riding close
together, sometimes one succeeding in driving the ball a little, only to
be foiled by the next man's ill-delivered back-stroke; racing, and
pulling up short, and racing again, till horses and riders were in a
perspiration and a state of madness not to be attained by any peaceful
means. At last, as we were riding near our own goal, some one, I could
not see who, struck the ball out into the open. Isaacs, who had just
missed, and was ahead, rode for it like a madman, his club raised high
for a back-stroke. He was hotly pressed by the man who had roused my
wrath in the first game by his "dribbling" policy. He was a light weight
and had kept his best horse for the last game, so that as Isaacs spun
along at lightning speed the little man was very close to him, his club
well back for a sweeping hit. He rode well, but was evidently not so old
a hand in the game as the rest of us.
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